Conjoined
by thegoatlady
Summary: ...Or five times they act like a couple, and one time they actually are.
1. Greg Lestrade

**One**

Greg Lestrade pulls his coat collar up against the rain, stood half-sheltered under the awning of 221 Baker Street. Holding the stack of pilfered case files safely under his coat, he reaches out to bang the door-knocker again, but before he can, the door swings open and Mrs. Hudson is ushering him inside with a flurry of frenzied admonishments for failing to remember his umbrella. Out of nowhere, she produces a kitchen towel, and uses it to pat dry his dripping hair, muttering about the inevitability of Greg catching cold. _Christ,_ he thinks, this woman would probably mother hen over anybody that came to her door.

"Oh, what's the matter now, Detective? Has Sherlock done something?" Her voice brims with a kind of exasperated motherly concern, and Greg ducks his head as she becomes a little more forceful with the towel.

"Ouch! Um, no, Mrs. H, not that I know of. Had a stack of cold cases that were piling up on my desk, is all. Thought I'd pop in and drop some off for 'im. Figure he's probably climbing the walls by now." He gently pries the kitchen towel from her hand and sets to work on wiping the wetness from his hands and face. Mrs. Hudson tuts as if he's somehow doing it wrong, but doesn't protest. "Do you know if they're in?"

Greg wonders when it became customary to refer to John and Sherlock as a "they", as if the pair of them were one entity with two different heads or something. A funny picture of the two as conjoined twins pops into Greg's head and he has to fight hysterical laughter as Mrs. Hudson confirms that yes, they are in fact in their flat, and permits his passage up the stairs. In his head, conjoined John and Sherlock topple in a violently bickering heap to the ground, both having been trying to run in different directions at once. He really has to lay off the caffeine and get more sleep, Greg thinks to himself, shaking his head; he's turning into a right basket case.

The door to 221B sits slightly ajar, an unexpected warmth of light and sounds and smells drifting out into the hall. Lestrade hasn't really been inside the flat very many times—and usually when he is there it's only to pop in, tell Sherlock to get his arse to a crime scene—and pop out. The occasional drugs bust occurred only when he _knew_ Sherlock was withholding evidence for a case. He would definitely do it more often, just to mess with the bastard, but his team (Sally) had outright refused to come back last time after finding a decapitated fish's head wrapped in aluminum foil and hidden in a shoe box under Sherlock's bed, with a meat thermometer sticking out of its eye socket. The mad detective had yelled up a storm as his "experiment" was tossed into the garbage by a very pale, suddenly very quiet Sergeant Donovan. She had spun away down the staircase with a hand held haltingly over her mouth (and looking distinctly green) as Sherlock indignantly filched it out of the bin and shouted insults after her.

Experiment or whatever it was, Greg does remember that it had smelled absolutely bloody awful.

The smell emanating from the flat now is much different, though, and thankfully there is no obvious shouting or stomping to be heard among the various other noises coming from inside. Sherlock must not be in a strop today then—or if so, it's a blessedly quiet one. He glances at his watch as he pushes the door open—God, was it really six already? No wonder he was losing it—he hadn't eaten anything since nine o'clock that morning.

The scene that greets him when he looks up from his watch makes him stop in his tracks, barely having made it past the doorway. The two men—conjoined, indeed—stand a little closer together than is normally considered just friendly, hovering over the stove in the kitchen. John stands with a large wooden spoon in hand, stirring whatever smells so delicious which he has simmering in a large saucepan. Sherlock stands just behind him, observing his flatmate's handiwork. Which would have been all fine and well, except for the fact that Sherlock practically has his chin resting on John's shoulder, and Greg doesn't think there is but an inch of available space between them. Neither seems tensed by the other's proximity, though, and in fact they both look like they couldn't be more at ease. The telly is blaring from the living room with an old episode of Jeremy Kyle, and the women screaming bloody murder at each other on the screen make it impossible to decipher what Sherlock and John are saying; though John is nodding encouragingly with a faint smile, and whatever John says makes Sherlock straighten up and puff his chest out a little with pride.

The scene isn't incriminating in any way, but there is still a certain intimacy surrounding the whole thing that throws him off. As Greg looks around the flat, it begins to dawn on him. The telly blaring unashamedly, the soft lighting, the window cracked just enough for the sound of the rain to filter on through—John and Sherlock in the middle of it all cooking a meal together, their respective chairs pushed cozily near each other and waiting expectantly for them in the living room next to the crackling flames lit in the grate. The conclusion Greg comes to is almost startling: this isn't a typical bachelor pad that he has just barged into—this is a full-fledged _home_ , made for the two of them and by the two of them.

Hastily he steps back into the doorway before they notice his presence, and knocks loudly on the doorjamb. He feels an inexplicable heat rise in his cheeks as both men's heads snap up to focus their attention on him. He feels strangely guilty, as if he'd just walked in on them snogging or something. Which is a ridiculous notion. Greg blinks at the floor. Or at least it used to be.

"Greg!" John exclaims, looking surprised. It only takes a second for his face to split into a welcoming smile, which he reciprocates to the best of his abilities. "Well, come on in, don't just stand there like a dunce."

Greg steps in cautiously, case files still hidden against his side. John passes the spoon in his hand over to Sherlock as he moves away to wash his hands in the sink. Sherlock stirs the sauce on the stove once more before covering the pan with a lid and turning the heat down. Greg has the passing thought of how odd it is to see Sherlock in a domestic setting like this. He's even got a bloody kitchen towel patterned with butterflies slung over his shoulder. Most likely a borrow from Mrs. Hudson, he guesses. John comes up beside Sherlock and casually uses a corner of the towel to wipe his hands on before he claps Greg amiably on the shoulder. He opens his mouth to speak, before seeming to remember something. "Hang on." He glances over his shoulder. "Sherlock, could you—"

"Yes, yes, already on it," Sherlock interrupts, and the obnoxious volume of the television is lowered to an understated murmur of background noise.

"Jesus, mate, you look knackered," John says. Greg rubs his forehead, hoping he doesn't look as semi-conscious as he feels. He hasn't had a moment to pause all day, but now that he has he feels like he could collapse right here on their carpet and have a kip.

John quickly clears off a section of the cluttered sofa for him, and Greg falls onto the worn cushions gratefully. He blinks when Sherlock is immediately standing over him, hands on his hips. His sleeves are uncharacteristically rolled up to his elbows for the purpose of working in the kitchen. "Well?" he exclaims irritably, a hand detaching from his hip to flail in the air next to him. "Do you have a case for me, or are you just here to waste my valuable time?"

" _Sherlock_ ," comes John's disapproving voice from where he sits in what Greg has come to classify as _John's_ chair. Sherlock is blocking his view of the doctor, but Greg can only imagine the look on his face.

It's impressive that it actually diverts Sherlock's attention at all. He glances behind himself at John as if there's a bug buzzing around his shoulder, curls bouncing with the sudden movement. "What _now_?" he snaps, but otherwise doesn't budge.

John's voice is all no nonsense and limitless patience, as if he's talking to an unruly toddler. "Leave. Greg. Alone. Stop harassing him, and _just maybe_ he'll give you a case worth your while. It might even rank higher than an eight," he cajoles as a last effort, voice almost playfully condescending.

Surprisingly, after a momentary staring contest with Greg's coat under which the files are stored (how does he know?), Sherlock huffs dramatically and walks with heavy footfalls back to his chair across from John's. He falls into it moodily, and Lestrade swears he hears him muttering something about not knowing who "this mysterious _Greg_ person" is. He does this sometimes, pretends that he doesn't know Greg's name, or calls him some random name starting with a 'G'. Some popular ones were Gavin, George, and even _Giovanni_ had been one of them.

Greg would think the detective was just taking the piss if not for the completely straight-faced manner in which he does it. Surely Sherlock _does_ know his first name after so many years, he thinks irritably. The prick had stolen his police ID just the week before—had he not even bothered to read it?! He makes himself stop that train of thought and take a deep breath. _Let it go, Greg,_ he tells himself.

"Well, gents," Lestrade sighs, leaning his elbows on his knees. He tries to avoid the abominable glare Sherlock has directed at him. "It's regrettable to say, but I _don't_ have a fresh case for you just yet."

Sherlock's mouth gapes open, but before any words can pass his lips, John shoots him a death glare, and Lestrade sends a similar look his way, holding up a finger in warning. The combined effort of them both seems to make Sherlock reconsider his words. He settles for yanking his knees up to his chest petulantly and huffing loudly.

"Listen, it's been all paperwork for me too, it's not like I'm out gallivanting the city without you," Greg grumbles, shooting an irritated look back at him. He's not in the right mindset for Sherlock's capricious shite tonight. He starts to wonder why he even decided to drop by in the first place. _Because you're trying to stall going home to an empty flat,_ he thinks to himself. _Because your wife took the house and the kids and everything, and it's all unbearably sad._

He pushes the intrusive thoughts aside, and reaches into the side of his coat, grasps the files. "What I _do_ have, however—"

The folders are snatched from his hand before he's even pulled them out of his coat. Sherlock runs off to his bedroom like a dog with a bone. "...are some cold cases. You're welcome," he mutters in response to the slam of Sherlock's bedroom door.

Greg sighs and rubs his temples. He guesses he shouldn't have to explain them to him, anyway. A few vaguely questionable deaths, a jewelry store robber gone missing, and one lone case of some poor old woman's lost cat, which he isn't even sure how ended up on his desk in the first place. Either way, pretty self-explanatory stuff.

After a moment, Greg forces himself to stand from the sofa, preparing to excuse himself. The thought of going back to his flat seems less and less appealing as the seconds pass. Maybe he'll just load up on coffee and go back to his office at NSY; after all, there are still two more stacks of unsolved cases to work through waiting for him on his desk. He opens his mouth to bid John a goodnight, but the doctor beats him to it, an eerily knowing look in his eyes. Seeing it reminds Lestrade that John is just as perceptive as Sherlock, but in the opposite way. Sherlock is a master at his craft like none he has ever seen, but John Watson could sniff out emotional turmoil three-hundred yards off with a pillowcase over his head, and that was a unique talent in and of itself.

"Listen, Greg, why don't you stay for supper? It'll be ready in ten minutes."

Greg looks around, is again reminded of how painfully, nostalgically homey the flat is. He wonders if either of them even realize the impression given off by the atmosphere of the place—that it belongs solely to John and to Sherlock and nobody else. They might as well have posted a sign outside the door barring anyone else's entrance—like little kids hanging a _Do Not Enter_ sign on the outside of a secret treehouse. "Nah, mate, thanks. But I don't wanna—impose or anythin'—"

John rolls his eyes in a distinctly Sherlockian manner, which Lestrade notes with a raised eyebrow. "Don't be daft, Greg, you're always welcome. And anyway, we made _way_ too much spag bol for just the two of us."

There's a beat of silence.

Then Greg licks his lips. Sniffs the air. "Spag bol, eh?"

John nods exaggeratedly, giving him a distinctly sneaky look. "Oh, yeah. Homemade sauce and all. Be quite a shame tomorrow when Sherlock bins all those leftovers to make room for his experiments…Oh, well. Nothing to be done for it."

Goddamn the man. He wasn't particularly looking forward to another vending machine sandwich for his dinner tonight, but now he can't reject the offer of a home-cooked meal and still feel morally sound. That, and the smell wafting from the kitchen is downright heavenly and he'd be an idiot not to stick around for a serving.

"Alright, okay," Greg groans. " _One_ bowl." John grins.

A few minutes later, as John is taking the bread sticks out of the oven, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom and wordlessly clears off the dining table, carting microscopes and notebooks and other various things back into his room without comment. Neither of them exchange a word or even a look, but when Sherlock comes back into the kitchen, John hands him a cloth and a bottle of spray cleaner. Sherlock dutifully wipes down the table while John makes up their dishes, and soon they're all sat in their respective seats and tucking in. Greg notices that John and Sherlock have sat directly next to each other, even though there is plenty more room to spread out at the sizable table. Greg has taken his seat on the other side of the table, directly across from them. The food is even more delicious than it smells, and he has to restrain himself from literally moaning at the taste of his first home-cooked meal in over six months. (Needless to say, he ends up having more than just the one bowl).

He finds watching Sherlock and John interact at crime scenes intriguing, but watching them interact at home gives Greg a whole new perspective. They work in tandem here just as they do at work. John butters a bread stick and passes it over to Sherlock, while Sherlock sprinkles a precise amount of salt and pepper over his bowl as well as John's. When John stands to rip a paper towel off the roll, and Sherlock opens his mouth as if to request one, John automatically rips off two and hands one over without even having to glance behind him. They are so attentive to each other, and don't even seem to notice. Did they not realize that their behavior reached well beyond the limits of "best mates" status, or did they just not care one way or the other? Having watched them interact in the comfort of their home all night, it's even harder to believe than it was before that they aren't a couple.

They actually end up having a fairly lovely meal, and Sherlock even behaves himself for the most part. He participates in the better topics of conversation, like John's old medical journals, John and Sherlock's past most riveting cases (and the newest NSY gossip), but doesn't complain as much as he usually would when it turns more towards small talk; like the weather and what they had read in that morning's newspaper or watched on the news.

As for the spag bol, Greg doesn't think he's ever devoured a bowl of it so quickly. It's the perfect combination of savory sauce, spice, and decadent pasta. He asks after the recipe, and John tells him that it was his grandmum's, passed down through generations. He goes on to explain the concerning level of madness Sherlock had reached after so long without a proper case, and how John had thought it the perfect distraction to teach him one of the few things he didn't know how to do, which was cook anything (food-wise) that didn't require a microwave. When he freely admits to having had the urge to push Sherlock out of the living room window earlier in the day, Sherlock takes a break from eating to stick his tongue out at him. Greg chuckles bemusedly at them, and tries not to gape too openly at Sherlock's empty bowl once he's finished it. He doesn't think he has ever seen Sherlock eat that much at once. Or eat that much in a week, come to think of it.

When the meal is over, Greg finds himself in surprisingly better spirits, smiling as he carries his licked clean dish to the sink. Hell, he'd even seen Sherlock genuinely grinning once or twice over the course of the night, so maybe it was going around. Maybe it was the spag bol.

He stops to use their loo before he leaves, and when he comes back out, they are actually washing the dishes together. Sherlock Holmes doing the dishes, and using that pretty, butterfly patterned dishcloth to dry them. Sherlock smirks and says something to John—too lowly for Greg to hear—which makes John shake with repressed laughter. He bumps his hip so harshly into Sherlock's in retaliation that the detective has to catch himself on the counter before he falls. Lestrade shakes his head at them, albeit fondly, and is not sure exactly what to think.

"Thanks for having me, boys," he calls, and grabs his coat from the hook next to the door. When he looks back to the sink, Sherlock has scurried off somewhere, water from the dishes dripping on the tile floor in his wake. Greg grins. He knew it was too good to be true, Sherlock Holmes doing the dishes.

"Oi!" John calls indignantly in the direction of Sherlock's room, elbow deep in soapy dish water. "Get your arse back out here and help me with these dishes, you wanker! Oh, and Lestrade, next time I see you, you had better have a case for him. A damn good one, too."

Greg laughs and makes his way towards the door, calling out a promise to tell the criminals of London to step up their game.

"We'll be seeing you, _Gertrude_ ," Sherlock can't help but call after him. Greg's face heats as he shuts their door behind himself a little firmer than necessary. He'd _known_ Sherlock had been fucking with him on the name thing, but the twin sets of uncontrollable laughter coming from their flat only confirms it as Greg trots down the steps. He wants to be miffed about it, but he can't help the smile that comes to his face.

 **/**

 **AN: Thanks so much if you took the time to read it. If you want, review and make me happy! This will be chapter 1 of 6. To be continued...**


	2. Sally Donovan

**AN: Back with another chapter! Hope you enjoy.**

 **/**

 **Two**

Sally Donovan is not a fan of Sherlock Holmes. That much she makes glaringly obvious to anyone that will listen. She is of the justified opinion that the man (if you could call him one) is dangerous, psychotic, and no small degree of arrogant, freakish, and rude to boot. The boss had been bringing him 'round crime scenes for years now, and though she was loathe to admit it (and wouldn't out loud), he had most cases solved quicker than she could pour her first cup of coffee. Whether you could call it a good or a bad thing, cases were definitely more interesting with him around, especially now that he had his lap dog/doctor/assistant running along beside him.

Tonight, for example, she stands next to one of a few squad cars as she waits for Lestrade and the other two to return. Currently, all three idiots are running the back alleys next to the Thames, chasing a notorious art thief who had stolen and sold an antique coin cabinet full of equally antique shillings from the British Museum. (The Freak had been the one to make the correlation between his past offenses and this new one, of course. Bloody figures.) Glancing anxiously at the time on her mobile, Sally thinks back on how she'd ended up in this position, once again. Half an hour ago, Lestrade had received a frenzied phone call from Dr. Watson; he'd panted into the receiver that he and Sherlock were on him, given their location, told him to get his arse in a squad car, and promptly hung up. Sally had practically begged Lestrade to wait for the team they had on standby to arrive but, as always, he didn't listen to her, and instead took off running to join the wild-goose chase. The other two officers who had arrived with them had made the smart choice, and opted to wait in their cars for the team to arrive.

She's broken out of her frustrated thoughts by the sounds of a struggle, followed by an indecipherable shout, then the cacophonous sound of a splash from a bit further down on the river. She stands straight up, heart stuttering in alarm. She fumbles for her radio, holds it up to her mouth. "Boss? All right?"

He responds quickly, and she lets out a breath in relief as static ripples through the receiver. "M'fine, Donovan. Make sure the paramedics are ready!" And then he clicks off, offering no further explanation.

She does as told, hurrying over to the ambulance parked off to the side and transferring the meager information to the two young paramedics inside. They nod and get to work, pulling out shock blankets and double checking their supplies. Sally waits restlessly, resisting the urge of her long-buried habit to bite at her fingernails.

After what feels like a lifetime, they round the corner, all three of them looking particularly worse for wear. Lestrade totes the handcuffed art thief, yanking harshly on the cuffs as he shoves him into the back of a squad car. Sherlock (who looks practically unconscious) and John are slower in their arrival, both sopping wet, John practically carrying the former as he supports his weight. The paramedics rush over to help, but the doctor brushes off their attempts and instead begins barking orders at them. The squad car holding the thief pulls out, the siren _whooping_ once as the second squad car's engine starts and follows slowly behind. That leaves only leaves the four of them plus the paramedics on the scene. Lestrade sighs as he comes up beside her, gaze following hers. "So? You gonna tell me?" she asks, curious despite herself.

"Welp," he sighs. "We was chasin' Caffrey, and things were lookin' real good for us right about then. But the rat bastard 'bout-faced and pushed Sherlock in the wa'er. John thinks he 'as a concussion." His Londoner accent is becoming much more pronounced, his words and grammar beginning to slip; he's getting tired. She knows he hasn't been getting near enough sleep lately. Part of her is inclined to say the freak deserved it, but looking at him now, she can't bring herself to say the words. Sherlock looks nothing like his usual self, dazed and dangerously pale and shivering violently against his flatmate.

"Why's he all wet, then?" she asks, nudging her chin in John's direction. Lestrade chuckles, shaking his head. "Madman went in after 'im. Didn't even 'ave to think about it, just dove right on in and pulled 'im out."

Sally watches them from afar. With those two, she's never quite sure what to think. Sherlock might as well be a heartless robot in her eyes—but John Watson treats him differently, always has. She has to wonder _why_ , why a reasonably intelligent man like Dr. Watson would willfully choose to waste his time and emotional energy on such a cold-hearted bastard like Sherlock Holmes. Except that now as she approaches the ambulance for a better vantage point, he somehow doesn't inspire in her the acute sense of detestation which he usually does. John carefully lowers him onto the bed of the ambulance, and Sherlock sways to the side. One of the paramedics quickly covers the man's shoulders with a shock blanket and holds it there. It's telling of his current state that the detective doesn't even protest. Water drips from his bedraggled curls, and it _plinks_ steadily off the ambulance's bumper and trickles down to the pavement.

The other paramedic approaches from the front with a penlight, but John easily blocks the poor bloke's path and snatches the light out of his hand. "Dr. Watson," he swiftly introduces. "And _ta_ , but I've got this," he says, but with the tone of his voice he may as well have told him to fuck off. The pair of paramedics glance at each other, not seeming to have a plan of action for this, and the one holding Sherlock's shoulders steady shrugs. The one that had been trying to examine Sherlock steps a respectful distance back, letting the doctor work.

Sherlock's eyes are half-closed, and his head seems to tilt loosely forward and backward on his shoulders, like an infant trying to hold its head up. She's never seen him seeming so...weakened. It's odd and disconcerting, seeing the overbearing arsehole reduced to this. John pulls back Sherlock's eyelids, moves the light methodically back and forth over his gaze from a few different angles. He tuts disapprovingly at whatever he finds, but doesn't seem too overly worried.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John calls, simultaneously feeling along Sherlock's scalp, probing with his fingers. Sherlock makes some kind of vague noise in response, but Sally can't decipher it into words. John swears softly, and one of his hands emerges from Sherlock's head covered in blood. It had been unnoticeable before, mainly due to the dark color of the man's hair.

"Gauze, thermometer, gloves," John rattles off, and the paramedics rush to do his bidding. Sally has the thought that little Dr. Watson in his fuzzy jumpers can be quite commanding when he so decides to be. His presence has changed almost completely, his posture distinctly different. She supposes this is the Captain John Watson that the military knew, not the one that follows Sherlock around like a lost dog. He presses the gauze firmly to a spot on the back of Sherlock's head, then grabs the wrist of the paramedic standing behind Sherlock and places it there, like a human paperweight. When the thermometer beeps and John pulls it out of Sherlock's mouth, John curses again, more vehemently this time.

"Sherlock, are you dizzy? Do you think you could stand for me?" His voice is gentle, and as the paramedic replaces the gauze on his head with a fresh piece, John holds it in place and runs a hand soothingly over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to rouse him.

"John…? I'm...I'm fine," Sherlock slurs. He tries to stand but doesn't quite manage it, and John sighs in what looks like exasperated relief as he steadies his friend back onto the bed of the ambulance. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me. And no, you're not. We need to get you back to Baker Street and out of those wet clothes, Sherlock. Can you stand long enough to catch a cab?"

Sherlock nods unsteadily, eyes half-lidded. Oh, dammit. With a reluctant sigh, Sally steps forward and makes her presence known by clearing her throat. "D'ya need a lift? The boss won't mind if you do."

In truth, Lestrade never would have minded. It's Sally who's making the sacrifice. John cocks his head at her as if confused by the offer, but doesn't refuse it. She uses the radio at her hip to inform Lestrade, and he pulls the patrol car conveniently right up next to the ambulance. The paramedics, probably feeling rather useless, hand over a pile of extra shock blankets, and Lestrade hops out of the driver's seat to help her line the backseat with them so as not to ruin the upholstery. She looks over to see that John's gotten Sherlock standing now, though the detective still looks completely gone. Her eyes wander to John's hand, which is vigorously rubbing the other man's lower back, suspiciously close to his bum. She arches her eyebrows at him, and John flushes, mouth gaping open indignantly. "Oh for Christ's sake—it's for a medical purpose! Grow up."

She opens her mouth to respond, but Lestrade clears his throat and gives her a _look_ over the roof of the car, so she relents, grumbling to herself as she gets in the passenger seat. John loads them into the backseat, and they're off towards Baker Street. Once the doors are closed and they're all boxed in, Sally catches a whiff of the wet-dumpster stench of the Thames coming from the back and cracks her window just enough for a few breaths of fresh air so that she doesn't gag.

"Heat," John requests—demands, really. Not willing to protest, both Sally and Greg wordlessly direct their vents back towards the pair. After a few moments of silence, Sally glances in the rear view mirror and tries to school her expression into indifference. John has his arms around Sherlock, and Sherlock's head has lolled onto John's chest, his mouth hanging open in sleep. John alternates, one hand still holding pressure on the gauze, the other trying to rub heat back into Sherlock's arms and legs. His gaze is distinctly protective as it moves back and forth between the top of Sherlock's head and outside the window.

Probably assuming he isn't being watched, the doctor pauses a moment in his ministrations. He cranes his neck slowly downward to look more closely at the other man's face, and Sally sees a very soft smile begin to grace his lips. He lifts a hand and uses one finger to brush a soaked curl off Sherlock's forehead. Her eyes widen as she watches them, nearly transfixed. Lestrade clears his throat and Sally rapidly averts her gaze from the mirror as John's head snaps up in surprise. She catches Lestrade's pointed gaze on her as she looks away, and they share a look which is silent but packed full of meaning. "He gonna be alright?" Lestrade asks, careful to keep his voice at a lower volume in regards to the sleeping detective. Sally shakes her head just a little, as if to clear it.

It takes John a moment to respond. "Yeah. Yeah, he um...he hit his head on the way down, got himself a mild concussion. Little touch of hypothermia as well." At the words, he goes back to rubbing at Sherlock's arms, but with a lighter touch so as not to wake him. Sally thinks a bomb couldn't wake the man right now. He looks border-line comatose. A thought occurs to her, and she turns in her seat to look at them.

"Wait—if he's got a concussion, shouldn't we be keeping him awake? Not letting him sleep?"

John shakes his head, smiles at her like she's a little kid who doesn't know much. It's condescending, but in a more tolerable way than Sherlock. "Nah, that only applies in severe concussions, not minor ones like this. He should be fine by the morning. Probably have a headache for a few days."

Sally is tempted to say something like, _Good, he gives everyone else one_. Remarkably, she restrains herself.

"What about you, then?" Lestrade asks, glancing away from the road momentarily to look in the rear view with concern. "Hypothermia and all that? You were in the water, too," he informs, as if the doctor isn't dripping wet enough to tell that for himself.

"I wasn't in the water as long as Sherlock was, _and_ I don't have a concussion. Plus, Sherlock hasn't slept in three days." He glares at the now-sleeping man huddled in his arms as if he can hear him. "Exhaustion makes the body more vulnerable to things like this, makes the symptoms come on stronger than they normally would."

Lestrade hums vaguely in agreement and diverts his attention back to the road.

Sally's mouth doesn't consult her before it opens, and says, "I have tea still hot in my thermos. Would that help warm him up?"

John's hands pause their constant rubbing on Sherlock's arms, and he blinks at her in astonishment. She can't really blame him, because she's just as stunned. They blink back and forth at each other for awhile before John speaks.

"Uh—no, I don't trust him not to choke on it in his state. Probably couldn't wake him up to drink it, anyway." Sally nods and turns back to face the front, wondering what the bloody hell had gotten into her. Yesterday she would have said _let him freeze_ and probably pushed him back into the water. _I must be tired,_ she thinks.

"But, um, thanks for the thought, Donovan. That was—" he clears his throat. "It was a good idea."

She nods again, and feels the silence descend over the car again. She reaches out to turn the radio on, mindful to keep the volume at a comfortable hum of sound. But there's nothing except commercials playing on the radio, no traffic to distract her attention, and Lestrade determinedly says nothing more for the rest of the ride, the traitor. Inevitably, her gaze roams back to the mirror again. It's odd, being in a car for so long with Sherlock and not hearing a peep from him. Without his _relentless_ diatribes to rile her up and make her want to throw herself out of the car, she gives herself a moment to observe him for a change. He almost looks like a different person, face slack in sleep, shivering pathetically and curled into his doctor for warmth. And the way which John cares for him is blindingly obvious; he had stepped readily back into the role of army doctor for him tonight, barking orders and controlling the situation without hesitation. If it were someone else, someone not so _heartless_ , she thinks (with less conviction), she might say the whole thing was rather heartwarming.

She sighs and takes a long sip of her tea, gaining a new appreciation for the double-walled insulation that has kept it still steaming for the last two hours. She'd been worried for Lestrade earlier, but she realizes she really hasn't been sleeping either, lately. Sally thinks of Anderson, of the whirlwind argument they'd been having for nearly a month yet with no end in sight. She slips into a dozy awareness, letting her nerves be soothed by the steady rhythm of the engine. She blinks awake and sits up when the car stops. She glances out the window. They've arrived at Baker Street, and it appears their landlady has left the outside light on for them. It casts an eerie shadow on the otherwise dark and vacant street.

"Aw, bless their hearts," Lestrade quips quietly beside her, and Sally cranes her neck to follow his gaze into the backseat. Oh, good Lord. She had thought it was oddly quiet, even with the benefit of Sherlock being unconscious. John has now fallen asleep as well, and his head rests on top of Sherlock's where it still presses against John's chest. His arms are still wrapped protectively around him, and now Sherlock's own wiry arms have come to rest loosely around John's waist as well, hands burrowing under his coat. There is a perturbed frown on John's face, as if he's still worried even in sleep. But both men's breathing is deep and heavy, and she almost regrets having to wake them.

"John, mate," Lestrade calls softly, and Sally turns back around so he doesn't feel like the spectacle which they are when he wakes. Greg reaches back to nudge the doctor's knee, and Sherlock groans in protest. Sally sees him snuggle further into John's neck through the rear view and raises her eyebrows. John comes back to full awareness pretty quickly (army training and all that) and immediately takes stock of his position. He blushes furiously and refuses to look either of them in the eye.

He shakes Sherlock awake, or at least as awake as he's going to get, and politely declines Lestrade's offer to help him get the incoherent man upstairs with a tense smile. Seeming more like himself, Sherlock grumbles something about having a headache and being cold, and still mainly refuses to part from John's warmth as he drags them both out of the car. John scoffs irritably.

"Oh, _are you_? Well, then maybe you'll listen to me next time and not run off on your own after a criminal, you twit. And I'll have you know—" the rest of his rant is cut off as the door slams closed, and Sally watches them walk away, pressed impossibly close together, towards the front door.

"Like conjoined twins, aren't they?" Lestrade comments, and there's a smile on his face like he has a private joke with himself. She shoots him a thoroughly perplexed look, feels her world view tilt as she watches John turn his key in the lock and stumble with his lanky detective through the doorway.

"Are they…?"

"I really have no idea," he sighs as he pulls away from the curb. "But if they're not, they bloody well should be."

She still has a great, _great_ dislike of the pompous sod, but as Lestrade drives them the short distance back to the office, she rests her head back against the seat and thinks begrudgingly that maybe Sherlock Holmes is _slightly_ more human than she had originally thought. Who'd have known?

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 **AN: Alright folks, that's it. Please, please leave me a review to let me know how I'm doing. Until next time!**


	3. Mrs Hudson

**AN: Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. Enjoy, and please don't forget to tell me what you think in the comments! 3**

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 **Three**

Martha Hudson heaves a sigh, and stares up at the ceiling of her living room. Her back is aching something awful along with her infamous hip, and she thinks it would be much bloody easier to enjoy her herbal soother if not for the racket coming from the flat upstairs. _Oh, those boys_ , she thinks, not unkindly. They're always making some kind of racket. If it wasn't gunshots, it was something else. Tonight, it happens to be that absurdly loud television, which is admittedly a step up from gunshots, but the point still stands. Such a small little thing would usually never irk her so badly, but she has a headache, and had gotten into a rather horrible domestic with her very own Mr. Chatterjee earlier in the day; so, frankly, she's irritable. She sighs and wrenches herself to her feet. She stubs out her half-smoked soother in the ashtray on the coffee table, throws her worn pink robe on over her nightie, and makes her way up the stairs to 221B. As a last thought, she lightly spritzes herself with a cheap bottle of perfume just before she exits her flat. Not that Sherlock would ever be fooled by it, but it was likely that John would be if it came down to questions.

She approaches the door of their flat, and the only light coming from under the door is faint and flashing, the noise of the telly even blaringly louder than it had been from downstairs. She knocks on the door. "Boys," she calls at a moderate volume. "Could you turn the telly down a bit? I can't enjoy my soother with all that noise, mind."

She stands with her ear to the door for a moment, but there's no response. She knocks again, a bit louder. "Boys?"

Not a peep. She finds the door unlocked, and eases it cautiously open. She had learned rather early on that one could never anticipate what would be on the other side of the door to 221B. Once when she'd walked in unannounced, a human toe had come flying through the air and hit her smack in the forehead, toetag still dangling from the thing! She peers around the door slyly. What she sees makes her breath catch, and she grips the door for support as her heart melts in her chest. Well, this is a new one.

 _Oh, my,_ she thinks. She tiptoes inside and carefully closes the door so the light shining in from the hall doesn't wake them. The flat is dark except for the glare of the movie playing on the telly, which flashes incrementally over their sleeping faces. They're both sprawled out on the sofa, half-empty takeaway containers forgotten on the coffee table in front of them. Oh, bless them, but they're so precious!

John lounges with an arm spread over the back of the sofa, head at an uncomfortable angle and mouth gaping open, snuffling a bit through his nose. There's a bowl of popcorn kernels in his lap, hand loose around it. Sherlock's head is pressed up against John's thigh, curled up fetally as he is over the cushions and breathing heavily, with a tattered dressing gown hugged around himself. Complaints forgotten, Mrs. Hudson unfreezes from her startled position in the middle of the room. She takes the afghan from John's customary chair, and flits over to cover them with it, tucking it in around them gently. She carefully takes the bowl from John's grasp, and coos delightedly when Sherlock clutches the afghan and readjusts his head to settle comfortably onto John's lap. John lets out a puff of breath and his hand falls to rest easily on top of the other man's head of curls, and both of their eyes move rapidly under their eyelids as they settle in more cozily.

She steps back, grinning from ear to ear, and slides her mobile from the pocket of her robe. She knows she really shouldn't invade their privacy, but oh, she just can't help herself. Using the light from the telly instead of risking using flash, she snaps a few pictures of them, and has to restrain herself from jumping with glee at each one. After a few healthy moments of starstruck gazing, she clasps her hands together silently below her chin and shakes her head at them. She locates the remote, turns the volume on the telly down, and sneaks as quietly as a mouse out the door and back down the stairs into her own flat.

She sighs as she sits back on her sofa, contemplating the lonely looking soother resting in the ashtray. It almost seems too quiet now without the sounds from the flat upstairs, so she turns up the volume on the telly and leans back, idly fiddling with the cigarette lighter she finds wedged between the cushions.

 _Those two_ , she thinks, not for the first time. _Idiots, the both of them._ One a doctor, the other a brilliant detective, and yet neither of them could see what was directly in front of their eyes. Herein lies both the blessing and the curse of being the little old landlady; nobody thinks that she observes what goes on around her, and admittedly she plays along with it, but she _does notice things_. She had helped to run an international drug cartel in her younger years, for goodness' sake! She hadn't lost her touch to that degree. In her "glory years", it had always been very necessary to keep a mental catalogue of things; and that didn't only pertain to expenses, arrest warrants, and getting past the people in customs. There was a certain aspect of Sherlock's beloved observation to it as well; it was vitally important to watch body language, speaking patterns, and general behavior as well, in order to know if you were likely to get scammed, shot at, or worse. Martha had always had a knack for it. So, yes, she is quite sure that she knows good and well the truth of what she sees in those two, even if they don't.

They share a palpable kind of passion unlike any Martha has ever seen; one stronger than even she and her husband had ever experienced together, and though she'd ended up hating him in the end, their marriage had had no shortage of arduous fixation. Well, at least she and Frank had kept it confined to the bedroom, she thinks. Her tenants, though unaware of the fact, spread their feelings on their sleeves for the whole world to see. Mrs. Hudson uses the lighter in her hand to relight her soother, and holds the fragrant smoke in her lungs for a long moment before letting it back out.

She has a veritable montage of recollections regarding Sherlock and John, so it's difficult to single just one out; she probably has a story for every single day since they had moved in upstairs that would raise the eyebrows of anyone with common sense. _Good God_ , she thinks, rolling her eyes to herself. She recalls an incident from just a few weeks ago, watching with a hand pressed to her cheek as Sherlock tossed things about and destroyed the flat in typical unruly fashion after going too long without a proper murder to solve. She knows Sherlock is generally an absurd young man, but he graduates to a whole new level of intensity when he becomes too bored, somewhat like a hurricane set loose on an ocean. By the time he'd started throwing things out of the window, she had offered him a cuppa three times over and was growing weary of the whole thing. John, for his part, was doing a splendid job of pretending to be unbothered, sitting at the desk with his laptop and a cup of the soothing lavender infused tea Mrs. Hudson had bought for him at the market.

"Sherlock," John had sighed. "There's nothing in either of our inboxes. Unless you want to go and track down all the lost dogs in London, I don't know what to tell you."

Sherlock had yelled then, pulled at his hair frustratedly, and then he was on John. He had leaned over him, an arm on either side of the chair, and brought his face not a hairsbreadth from his flatmate's. Mrs. Hudson had expected him to scream again, but his words came out on a fierce hiss. " _I need a case!"_

She stood frozen in the kitchen, watching. John was staring into Sherlock's eyes, looking—for lack of a better word—starstruck. Both of their chests had moved up and down rapidly, brushing up against each other with every labored breath. They were silent for a long while. John's eyes had moved back and forth over Sherlock's face, like he was searching for something, and had lingered quite blatantly on the other man's lips. He'd taken a deep breath, then said, breathily, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock had rumbled, and Mrs. Hudson almost jumped at the unexpected range of emotions laced clearly through his voice. She watched the back of his head as it tilted slightly forward, like a cat contemplating its prey. Mrs. Hudson had held her breath, waiting with rapt attention and clutching her tea towel between her hands.

"You've spilled my _bloody_ tea!" John suddenly hollered. Mrs. Hudson's eyes then darted to the cup on the edge of the table, tipped over where Sherlock had knocked into it with his elbow. The Calming Blend had spilled all over the carpet that she'd just cleaned, and the smell of warm lavender wafted through the flat.

"Oh, dear," she had gasped, and scurried over to clean it up. Then Sherlock was back across the room throwing himself onto the sofa, John was storming red-faced from the apartment, and another incident had passed them by in the blink of an eye. And that hadn't been the first time she had witnessed an encounter so heated between them. Not even close.

She thinks it just ridiculous the frequency of occurences like this, and finds herself growing tired of watching them dance around each other on eggshells in this worn out game of theirs. There has got to be something else she can do to force them to get on with it already, some new tactic she can try. In the morning, she decides, she'll go next door and ask Mrs. Turner her thoughts.

In the present, Mrs. Hudson takes another long pull off of her soother, and gives it a contemplative look as she breathes out a puff of smoke. Maybe next time she ought to lace John's tea with something a little stronger than lavender, she thinks. She bursts out giggling at the thought, which leads into a coughing fit. She has to haul herself into the kitchen and pour a cold glass of water to remedy herself. She glances at the time on the stove and is startled to see how late it is. Maybe she'll sleep in tomorrow as well, let the boys make their own breakfast. She strolls back out to the living room, stores her soother away in her hiding spot, and heads into her bedroom to get settled. She's still giggling under her breath when her head hits the pillow.


	4. Mycroft Holmes

**The song Sherlock plays for John is an instrumental version of "Make You Feel My Love. You can listen to it here.** **watch?v=cc-XMNTA2aw**

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Sherlock had always refused to play the violin when they were younger. At least, he had refused to play for an audience. Whether it would be even remotely believable to anyone whom hadn't grown up in the same household with Sherlock, there had been a time where the boy would have hidden under any number of tables to avoid having to face spectators. As a small child, when Mummy or Aunty had asked him to put on a performance, he'd mulishly decline with a firm shake of his head and reproachfully narrowed eyes from beneath his mop of constantly unruly dark hair. Usually, as Mycroft remembers, this had happened at family gatherings like Christmas and Easter when both of them had been forced to "celebrate" while stuffed humiliatingly into obnoxiously festive jumpers. As if that hadn't been bad enough in and of itself.

Fortunately for the sake of the entire family's entertainment, Mummy had made it an immediate rule for both of them to learn at least one musical instrument and one foreign language in their primary years, while their neuroplasticity was still spongy and elastic. So while the family wasn't as enthralled with Mycroft's piano playing as they were with Sherlock's violin, Mycroft would end up obliging them anyway by tapping out a mechanically perfect rendition of some church hymn or another just to hush them up. And even though Sherlock seldom acquiesced to their requests, not once did they fail, _every bloody year_ , to tirelessly plead with him before they finally turned with big, rejected eyes to Mycroft.

Mycroft truly didn't mind, was never jealous of the obvious favoritism. He was the oldest and most mature anyway; he was well above feeling envious of his little brother. It had never mattered to him much one way or the other; playing the piano wasn't difficult for him, and he was fairly good at it, but it wasn't particularly something he found any kind of joy or meaning in, either. It was a neutral task for him, like tying up the garbage or putting on his shoes; whereas Sherlock, contrarily, seemed to find immense gratification in playing, holding his talent close to his chest like a personal talisman. As the years went by and their family still persisted in asking Sherlock to play but to no avail, Mycroft began to wonder if it was just the thrill of the chase now more than anything else. "Oh, come now, love. Just one song?" Mycroft remembers Mummy simpering on multiple occasions.

As a surly teenager, Sherlock still did not resign to their efforts, and instead began with a new approach, resorting to vindictively scraping his bow across the strings with purposefully earsplitting discordance when faced again with their unrelenting requests for _Silent Night_ or _Amazing Grace_. Mummy had not been at all pleased, and eventually she had given up on it, and ceased asking either of them to play on holidays. For a time, Mycroft had wondered if Sherlock's prowess with the instrument was not what his music instructors claimed, and if that was why he so determinedly refused to play. But even though Sherlock was rarely known to practice outside of his music classes, on those nights Mycroft would hear him playing the songs alone in his bedroom when he believed the house to be asleep, a distinctly comfortable expertise in the way he coaxed sound from the violin that proved he had no difficulty at all with the instrument itself. It was perplexing even to Mycroft that his little brother had no issue showing off when it came to his intelligence, but kept his musical aptitude so wholly to himself. Soon enough though, Mycroft had gone off to Cambridge while Sherlock had fallen down a rabbit hole into drugs, and he had seldom had the inclination or the wherewithal to wonder over it since.

Mycroft pulls himself out of the memory with a shake of his head, and purposefully blocks the ones suddenly trying to force themselves upon him; the darker memories of his brother laid out in the cold dinginess of overused drug dens, deathly still and pale, with a dirty needle still hanging precariously out of his forearm. It had not been all that long ago when that was their reality, and he finds himself constantly on edge waiting for a relapse. Mycroft has never found himself to be a sensitive or squeamish man, but the constant worry he feels for Sherlock when those images come to mind is the kind of thing that keeps him awake at night. And not even the Korean elections had been able to do that.

A car's horn honks somewhere to his left, and Mycroft blinks several times in an attempt to clear his mind, safe from scrutinizing eyes in the backseat of the town car as it comes to a stop outside of his destination. He wonders why his mind has decided to betray him with this barrage of thoughts so suddenly (possibly because Mummy has been calling every day for the last week to badger him about coming 'round for the upcoming holidays and it's bringing up memories of years passed), but he pushes the dilemma resolutely away and lowers the partition.

"Jameson," he says to the driver, and the young man glances dutifully back at him through the mirror, as per usual. "You can expect me back in…" he glances at his watch, allows a sigh at the expectation that he will be chased out of the flat fairly quickly. "Oh, ten minutes, at the most. I shall call to inform you if I will be needing any longer."

"Very well, sir," Jameson nods, and restarts the car, presumably in preparation to drive around the block once or twice more while he waits.

When Mycroft steps out of the town car and onto the pavement thinly veiled with snow, there is the tempting smell of cinnamon and apple coming from the cafe just in front of him, and a young, frayed looking violinist playing "Joy to the World" just up on the corner of Baker Street, his case open expectantly at his feet. _Irony_ , Mycroft thinks somewhat wryly, and continues on towards the door to 221. Sherlock had played better at eight years old, though he'd never have let on.

So, when Mycroft enters the foyer of 221 just a mere few seconds later on that Sunday afternoon, he pauses at the bottom of the stairs at the startling sound of soft music, and for a moment irrationally wonders if the average violinist from the corner had followed him inside. But no, he thinks. It may be sentimental of him to recognize, but Sherlock's playing had always been unmistakable as his own, and the sound of it resonates undoubtedly from the upstairs flat now.

Mycroft brushes snow flurries off the shoulder of his waistcoat and cocks his head to the side, listening closely. The song is slow and sweet, but he racks his mental inventory and finds the melody completely unfamiliar as he flicks through all the classics. Not Bach, or Vivaldi, or any of the other numerous artists he has filed away in his library. He's aware that Sherlock composes occasionally, though he has never had the personal experience of, or much interest in, listening to such a creation. Even so, the music coming from the flat upstairs seems entirely too sweepingly romantic for his callous little brother to have put together himself.

Mycroft had initially come by to cajole Sherlock into taking a high-security case which he himself had no time to deal with—or rather, he would give the case file to Dr. Watson and let him do the cajoling, at which Mycroft would inevitably fail. He had not had many explicit opportunities thus far to observe the personal interactions of his brother and his new flatmate, but he had noticed rather quickly that Dr. Watson seems to hold the rare power to sway Sherlock's inclinations one way or the other, which confounds him to no end. He tucks the case file in his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and quickly alters his plan of approach, an unaccountable curiosity suddenly raging in him. The case and the obligatory brotherly bickering will just have to wait for a moment.

As he creeps silently up the seventeen steps, customary umbrella positioned over his shoulder, he expects Sherlock to be alone in the flat, going by his stubborn reluctance to play in front of an audience in the past. Though, Mycroft rethinks, both the lack of tread on the pavement just outside the door and the position of the door knocker suggest that Dr. Watson hasn't left the apartment in the last few hours. The snow on the pavement was fresh and untouched when Mycroft's car had pulled up to the curb, and the door knocker had lain flat and crooked against the door, not slightly upraised as it becomes when the doctor uses it to pull the door closed on his way out. Mycroft's surveillance team hadn't informed him of the man's departure before he had left his office, either.

Even with this aforementioned evidence, Mycroft is somehow still bemused to see Dr. Watson lounging comfortably in the armchair facing away from the doorway, Sherlock pacing near the window with his violin clutched between his chin and his shoulder. The door to 221B is carelessly cracked open, and Mycroft can see just enough to observe the scene before him without being too obvious. They are both still in their pajamas, a steaming cup of tea—Dr. Watson has just made it up—sitting on the cluttered desk, another ensconced between the doctor's hands. His brother's eyes are closed and his hair mussed across his forehead, an expression of total absorption etched across his features, lips and eyebrows pulled down in concentration. His bow arm moves effortlessly across the strings in time with the melody he plays, and Mycroft cannot help but think that he looks oddly graceful standing there next to the window as snow falls lightly outside, his too long pajama bottoms brushing against the carpet and his fingers moving with such fond precision over the neck of the violin.

Mycroft has always known that his own detached relationship with music differs quite a bit from his brother's convoluted one, and he finds himself almost covetous of that ability now as he observes the contentedness in Sherlock's body language as he sways in time with his own flowing composition. What it must be like, he thinks, to find such an absolute level of satisfaction in something as tedious and inconsequential as well-placed notes and chords. Mycroft himself doesn't mind a bit of something classical playing in the background while he's sat at his desk doing paperwork or pouring himself a nick of scotch, but it's only just that with him-background. For Sherlock, it is something infinitely more. He has always seen it; the polar difference between them, the added depth present in his little brother, of which Mycroft unfailingly lacks; no matter how strongly Sherlock tries to deny his own humanity, he certainly possesses a more potent amount of it than Mycroft ever has.

Sherlock had discovered the definition of the word "sociopath" at age ten while hiding out in the library from the other children, latched onto it like the desperate mask which it was, and had never gone back. And he does a convincing enough job of proving it to everyone but Mycroft; but he has always seen through him, and always will be able to.

Watching his brother now, he doubts that anyone would be fooled by the sociopathic act if given the chance to see him in this element. Emotion radiates off of him in an unguarded way that he hasn't seen since Sherlock was a small child, and the tune he plays is full of longing and single-minded devotion, so much so that even Mycroft can hear it clearly in the glide of the bow over the strings. Mycroft's eyes stray knowingly to Dr. Watson, who watches Sherlock with rapt attention, a very fond smile on his lips as he picks up his tea and blows on the surface of the liquid to cool it. Mycroft feels a peculiar mixture of bewilderment and dread pooling in his stomach. _He could be the making of my brother_ , he recalls saying of the doctor, and it seems to ring even truer now as he watches them. But there is a pit in his stomach now, too. With the capacity to care comes the capacity to hurt, and Mycroft recalls distinctly the catastrophe of a hurt Sherlock Holmes, the dark alleys and rampant self-destruction that come with it. Caring is not in any way an advantage, after all.

Sherlock brings the piece to an end with an overly complex flare, intended to impress his small audience; but Mycroft sees the nervousness it was meant to mask when his brother lowers the bow tensely to his side and rocks back slightly on his heels. "So, that's the whole of it, for now. Thinking of adding a bridge," Sherlock says, an uncharacteristically rushed chattiness to his tone as he busies himself with tucking the violin back into its case and avoiding his flatmate's eyes, which are trained on him intently.

There is complete silence for a moment before Dr. Watson sits forward with hands cupped over his mouth in a gesture of some kind of awed wonderment. When he moves his hands to rest under his chin, there is a wide smile turning up his lips. "Sherlock, that was just...yeah. Wow. It was absolutely beautiful. Thank you...so much, for playing it for me."

Mycroft tilts his head in a nod of grudging agreement with the doctor's fawning proclamation. He habitually avoids using terms which are full of such effusive sentimentality, but even he can hardly find another word to describe the euphonious composition his brother had just performed.

Sherlock clicks the latches on the violin case closed with a snap, and turns to lean his back against the desk with artificial nonchalance. He picks up his tea and fiddles with the string hanging down the side of the cup.

"You really think so," he says, and though it seems like it should be a question, he says it with a kind of mystified certainty. The pompous inflection which usually accompanies his voice when speaking of himself is absent. His whole countenance is changed, and instead of seeing his insolent, boisterous, _infuriating_ brother—Mycroft almost glimpses the one from before; in an instant he is shockingly redolent of the frightened, shy, and altruistic little boy who refused to tell Mycroft the names of his schoolyard bullies in fear of drawing too much attention or causing a fuss.

Dr. Watson scoffs disbelievingly, leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other as he shakes his head. "Well—yeah, Sherlock, of course." He looks befuddled. "Of course I think it's beautiful. It's amazing. You're just—"

He comes to a loss for words and clamps his mouth shut, and Sherlock's eyes focus in on him immediately, dangerously sharp. Mycroft—who has shamelessly insinuated hidden bugs and cameras into his brother's personal space for years now—feels suddenly like he is being horribly intrusive.

"Just what?" Sherlock asks lowly. His mug lands with a dull clunk on the desk as he straightens his posture, and Mycroft sees his hand tremble very, very slightly as it comes away. _Careful, brother,_ he thinks, and watches with bated breath despite himself.

There is a long silence in which Mycroft stands completely still, wary of any wayward creaking floorboards which might give away his hidden position behind the door. Then, Dr. Watson chuckles in a few nervous sounding puffs of breath, breaking the silence. "Go on and embarrass yourself a little more, John," he mutters self-consciously to himself. He sighs heavily and looks at the floor before continuing, but his voice is still clear and strong. "Yeah, okay. Not that you don't already know this, but, simply put...you're amazing, Sherlock. I think you're probably the most remarkable human being I've ever known if I'm being completely honest. You must know that."

There is a long silence wherein Sherlock stands frozen, like a glitching automaton.

Then all of a sudden, his eyes widen and he makes a sound like choking on air. After another momentary pause, he clears his throat and explodes into motion, nearly sprinting to his music stand to straighten an already tidy stack of sheet music. "Um, th-thank you, John, that was um. A very nice thing for you to say even though it clearly isn't finished yet but I suppose if you'd like I could play it for you when it is. Well, that is of course if you even care to hear it." Sherlock shrugs jumpily as he fiddles with the latches on the window. He is acting like a complete maniac, thinks Mycroft.

Dr. Watson stands cautiously, and walks over to where Sherlock stands suddenly frozen at the window to place a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, calm down, it's fine. I'd love to hear it again when it's finished, okay? I really would."

Sherlock continues to stare blankly out the window with his eyes narrowed, and Dr. Watson steps closer with concern. He looks like a cat who's spotted a bug trapped in the window pane. "Sherlock?" He snaps his fingers close to his flatmate's face, and sighs exasperatedly. "Right. Are you even in there or have you leapt off to your mind palace again in the middle of a bloody conversation?"

" _Mycroft,_ " Sherlock hisses venomously, and Mycroft feels the uncommon urge to run. Oh, Lord, the car must be back, he thinks frantically. It had been at least ten minutes since Jameson had dropped him at the curb and Mycroft had let himself be distracted by his brother's touching little concert. He had wasted time being stupidly inquisitive over trivial matters and hadn't even made it into the flat yet, let alone thought to let poor Jameson know he would be needing a few more minutes.

"What?" Dr. Watson's head reels back on his shoulders and he steps back with a puzzled frown.

Sherlock presses a finger up against the window accusingly, sneering. "Mycroft's town car has been sitting at the curb for at least the last one minute and thirty-two seconds, and yet he hasn't climbed his _fat-arse_ out yet. Which can only mean—" Mycroft knows he is about to be caught out. Sherlock is going to turn around any second, march to the door, and throw it open. He must act quickly if he's going to save any shred of his dignity.

He stomps lightly in place to poorly create the illusion of his natural footsteps, and knocks on the door with the tip of his umbrella. Sherlock's footsteps boom across the flat, and the door swings fully open to reveal him, Dr. Watson still standing confused on the other side of the room.

Mycroft lets his mask slide into place, and gives his brother a typically unctuous smirk. "Ah, hello, brother mine. How courteous of you to answer the door," he drawls. "May I come in?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow on him suspiciously, his gaze flicking rapidly everywhere from Mycroft's head to his toes. He raises his eyebrows dispassionately in response, privately pleased that his little brother can't quite seem to determine whether or not he's been eavesdropping outside the door.

He watches the way Sherlock's jaw moves as he grinds his teeth, an old habit dating back to primary school. If Mycroft really wanted to get under his skin, he would take the opportunity to remind him how badly Mummy used to chastise him for it. Best not to push it, he thinks.

"What could you possibly want with me today, _brother_?" he spits the last word, and leans against the doorjamb in a deliberate fashion as to block his way through.

Mycroft's eyes roll extravagantly. Back to being difficult. Back to the real world. "Sherlock—"

"Oh, come off it. Just let him in," Dr. Watson sighs from where he's crouched by the window, gathering the scattered sheet music from the carpet where Sherlock had presumably dropped it in his haste.

" _No!_ Why?" Sherlock cocks his head as if actually waiting for a valid reason. Good God, he should've just slipped the file under the door and been done with it, Mycroft thinks.

"Because," Dr. Watson grunts, levering himself back to his feet and glaring at them both in turn. Mycroft blinks, mildly offended by the accusatory look. "I'm not in the mood to watch you two bitch at each other over the threshold for the rest of the day. At least do it in the flat, for God's sake."

Sherlock reluctantly moves aside to let him pass and makes his way towards the leather chair facing the one Dr. Watson sat in before. He sits as if lowering himself onto a throne, crosses his legs, and steeples his hands beneath his chin.

"Great," Dr. Watson says. "Tea?" he directs this towards Mycroft, who merely inclines his head with a wan smile of gratitude in response. Once the doctor has disappeared into the kitchen, he makes a move to sit in the seat across from his brother.

"No," Sherlock states crisply just before his bum hits the cushion, and Mycroft gasps indignantly, mouth floundering unattractively for a moment.

"Pardon?"

"John's chair."

"Oh, you have _got_ to be joking,"

Sherlock gives him a brief rictus grin, uncrossing his legs to lean forward over his knees. "We both know that I rarely _joke_ , brother dear. Not that you would know one from the massive stick permanently stuck up your arse."

Mycroft sputters at the sheer indecency, wishing again for a moment that Mummy were there to reprimand him. He briefly shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Sherlock is always able to bring out the most childish parts of his personality, and Mycroft always, always lets himself get caught up in a futile argument, which only ever serves to entertain his brother's juvenile hunger for conflict.

Before they can antagonize each other any further, Dr. Watson strolls back in the room, pausing and looking back and forth between them with expectantly raised eyebrows. Mycroft's cup of tea is steaming in his left hand. "Um, I didn't know how you take your tea, so I just kept it simple. Wasn't sure if Sherlock's affinity for copious amounts of sugar was specific to him or if it ran in the family, so…"

He holds it out to him and Mycroft takes it with a tense smile, opting to stand over next to the mantle lest his brother attack him like some kind of feral dog defending its territory. But John doesn't sit, just stares at him quizzically.

"Mycroft, why don't you take a seat, make yourself comfortable?" He gestures to his chair across from Sherlock's with a smile, seeing as every other surface formerly known as a sitting area seemed to be covered with books, file boxes, and various other miscellaneous items that could probably all be classified as junk.

Mycroft shakes his head politely in response, though his feet are throbbing from his extra time on the treadmill that morning. Sherlock scoffs, "You sit, John. Trust me, he doesn't need to sit on his fat arse any more than he already does. I suppose if he really had to, he could sit on the floor like a dog." He chuckles dryly at his own joke as he sips at his lukewarm tea.

Mycroft feels his ears go hot with instant rage, but before he can open his mouth Dr. Watson has already taken control of it, and his posture and demeanor morph into something else, in a way Mycroft has not yet seen. His spine goes ramrod straight, and the look of calm disbelief he shoots Sherlock not only makes Mycroft himself want to take a step back, but has Sherlock looking at the floor in a rare display of instant regret.

"Sherlock Holmes," Captain Watson says in a frighteningly level tone. "Enough. That was inordinately rude, and I know your mother has raised you better. I will not have that kind of petty, childish bullshit said to any guest of mine. I don't care if he's your brother, he's _our_ guest. _Apologize_ , now."

Sherlock looks up to him in indignant disbelief, but Dr. Watson merely blinks at him in silence. Sherlock sighs, face scrunched up as if he'd bitten into a lemon rind. "Mycroft, I'm sorry I called you a fat arse and compared you to a flea-ridden beast." Mycroft balks at him. He isn't actually sure Sherlock has ever apologized to him except for at the behest of their mother, and even then, never so quickly. He looks to John with an unusually red face, seeming flustered. "Happy now?"

John takes a breath, and his posture relaxes. He shakes his head exasperatedly, but it's obvious he has put the Captain away, his service no longer required for this particular conversation. Mycroft swears that past the residual anger, he can see the reluctant beginnings of a smile on the doctor's face. "It's like having mental patients for children with you two twats, I swear. Mycroft, just sit already for God's sake."

Nobody argues this time around and Mycroft takes a seat, opening up his file and starting in on the case he'd brought them. John chooses to lean against Sherlock's chair instead of any other surface, which Mycroft notes with a bit of intrigue. Sherlock stays otherwise quiet, only rolling his eyes when Mycroft mentions the amount of legwork involved. Dr. Watson nudges him good-naturedly, and Mycroft is quite astounded at the level of comfort present between the two. Sherlock especially had never been so lax and adjustable with anyone; not with anyone Mycroft had ever met. Hell, he thinks, the last time mother chastised him, Sherlock had ignored her calls for seven months just out of spite. With John Watson, though, they were back to laughter and secret looks within minutes. Very, very intriguing, indeed.

When he finishes explaining the details of the case and holds the file out to Sherlock, he predictably doesn't take it. Instead, he turns his head to the side with a scoff and crosses his arms over his chest. So, John Watson is almost immediately forgiven for veritably spanking him, but Mycroft will apparently have to wait as long as anybody else for Sherlock to even look at him.

Dr. Watson stands to full height with a sigh, and Mycroft realizes the man had seamlessly relaxed to sit on the arm of the leather chair, very nearly in Sherlock's lap. Mycroft's eyebrows arch upward. He holds his hand out and Mycroft places the file in it. "Don't mind him. Probably just needs to be put down for his nap," he says, playfully kicking the side of the chair Sherlock sits in. Sherlock huffs disgracefully at the comment, but Mycroft sees him turn his face pointedly away, his cheek turning up slightly.

Mycroft stands with a sigh, straightening his waistcoat absently. "Suppose I shall leave it to you, then. Best of luck, Dr. Watson," he says gravely. "I'll speak with you later, Sherlock." Unsurprisingly, he receives a moody huff in return and nothing more.

Dr. Watson groans and holds the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if he has developed a sudden headache. "We'll call as soon as we have something. Thanks, Mycroft," he calls, and Mycroft waves over his shoulder. He passes the threshold and leaves the door cracked as it had been before. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and when he looks at the screen, sees there is a brand new text message from Jameson.

 _Is everything alright, sir?_ It reads. Well, isn't that the loaded question of the decade, Mycroft thinks dryly.

He glances up through the crack in the door and sees Dr. Watson toss the case file down on the coffee table before walking over to roughly ruffle Sherlock's hair. Mycroft blinks in astonishment. Sherlock tugs his head away in annoyance and tightens his arms over his chest. "You're an utter arsehole, you know that?" Dr. Watson comments casually.

"Mm. Yes, just as you are an unbelievable idiot," Sherlock snaps, but his voice lacks the usual scorn.

Dr. Watson only shrugs, and says, "Like I said. Arsehole."

"Idiot."

There is silence for all of five seconds, before they glance at each other and begin laughing in unison. Dr. Watson flops into his chair with a sigh and rests his head on his fist. "So, do you want to watch something on the telly, or do you want to play me another song, hmm?" Sherlock's face turns red and he reaches for the remote control, turning the television on. The doctor grins mischievously when Sherlock refuses to make eye contact.

"Let's hope we can find something other than that horrible Jeremy Nile show," he grumbles.

"It's Jeremy _Kyle_ , you twit. And you love it, don't pretend you don't."

A scoff. "I most certainly do not."

"Do so!"

Mycroft shakes his head and looks back to his phone, heading down the staircase and away from the bickering men in the flat. Who would have thought that all it takes to control Sherlock Holmes is a stuffy little army doctor with distasteful fashion sense? Mycroft is beginning to see now, despite himself, what Sherlock sees in him. Perhaps he isn't so ordinary as Mycroft had originally believed.

 _Everything appears to be quite alright, yes. Heading out now._

 _-M.H._

 **/**

 **Thank you for reading, and staying with me as I take forever to upload this story. Please, please send me some reviews. They mean the world to me! ;)**

 **-thegoatlady**


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